


The Window Affair

by fraukuryakin



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Nothing too explicit, i can only assume his ass his fine af too, idk if you've ever seen henry cavill's thighs but theyre a work of art, theres some sexy goings ons in part 2 but i mean...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 09:50:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11483880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraukuryakin/pseuds/fraukuryakin
Summary: Napoleon gets his fat ass stuck in a window.





	1. Chapter 1

This cannot be happening.

This honestly _cannot_ be happening. This has got to be a dream, or more accurately, a nightmare, because their time is running out and Illya is staring at Napoleon’s _substantial_ arse that’s currently blocking their way.

Napoleon had given up trying to get through the too small window a few seconds ago, and instead lays there still, panting quietly, his face red with exhaustion and embarrassment. Illya is thankful he’s stopped wriggling about, namely because amidst his anger and impatience he found himself transfixed by the sight. This can't be happening.

“We _must_ hurry,” Illya hisses between gritted teeth, as large hands grip high on Napoleon’s thigh, other grabbing what of his arse he can fit, using all his strength to push the other agent through. A shiver goes through Napoleon at the feeling of the strong hands on his body, the touch so great it almost distracts him from the task of trying to wriggle free. He struggles and strains, little grunts and whines emitting from the both of them, Illya struggling to keep a hold of Napoleon’s squirming body. He can barely breathe, so squeezed he is by the window frame, as well as the fact Illya has somehow managed to place his hand in such a way that he’s pressing against, practically _pinching,_ his balls. The initial touch against them has the man jerking and gasping, but Illya doesn’t notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care, because Napoleon is _sure_ his partner can’t miss the fact he’s getting harder and harder in his pants (just how much is obscured from Illya’s view?). This really can’t be happening.

Illya is a stubborn lump of brute force, but even he gives in eventually, letting go of Napoleon with a frustrated grunt, stepping back and trying to catch his breath. Napoleon is in an even worse state. Besides his arousal, he’s absolutely drenched in sweat, body shaking and chest heaving as much as the small space allows, so great was the stress of their struggle. Illya can’t even enjoy the hilarity of the situation (especially since it’s at Napoleon’s expense), and even though he’s facing away from him, Napoleon can almost feel how tense he is.

“Come back way you go,” Illya grunts, his break apparently over.

Napoleon almost feels like he’s on the verge of tears. Thankfully, evidence of such isn’t apparent in his voice, “Well Peril, I hate to break it to you, but if I _could_ come back the way I came, I would have mentioned it _before_ you accosted me.”

Illya doesn’t bother responding to that as he steps over again, though Napoleon can almost hear the sneer, and feels himself immediately demurred, ashamed at his predicament for more than one reason. He reaches out and wraps his hands around Napoleon’s waist. As best he can anyway because…Napoleon is considerably _larger_ there than his fancy suits suggest. Illya’s brows quirk upwards ever so slightly. _Interesting._

“You have very good tailor, Cowboy,” He can’t hide the amusement in his voice, and all Napoleon can do is feel deeply offended before the man starts tugging at him without warning. He lets out an embarrassing squeak before helping as best he can, which entails sucking his stomach in and wriggling about, trying not to kick the man.

It’s no good.

“Suck stomach in.”

No good whatsoever.

“Suck stomach in, Cowboy-“

“I am! I’m currently doing that!"

“Cowboy-“

“That’s as far as it goes! We can’t all be lamp posts like you, Peril!”

Illya is beginning to lose patience. He stares at Napoleon’s arse, realises he’s getting distracted from thinking for a solution and stares above it instead. He clenches and unclenches his jaw a few times, thinking, before he raises a leg, pressing his foot against the wall beside Napoleon, gritting his teeth and gathering all his strength to _heave._ And it works! Eventually at least. It takes a while but Illya somehow manages to pull Napoleon free, though it’s less than smooth. Napoleon bumps his head on the window frame on his way out, letting out a gentle cry as he falls backwards into Illya’s arms, though the man quickly lets go of him, letting him stand on his own as he tries to catch his own breath.

Napoleon doesn’t look his usual self. Even on difficult missions, he always manages to retain some sort of…dignity and frustrating presentfulness, but he’s almost unrecognisable now. He looks a complete mess, with his hands holding his sore head, dark locks a tangled, unkempt mess, some strands sticking to his forehead. His chest is heaving with pants, tie twisted, button of his waistcoat ripped off from being dragged over the window frame. His shirt sticks to his skin with sweat, untucked and revealing a glance of his abdomen (which Illya can’t stop staring at). He looks utterly, completely fucked. Maybe that’s why Illya zones out and gets lost in staring at him, Napoleon’s whined complaints falling on deaf ears.

“God I need a drink,” He says, exhausted, hands smoothing over his hair in a vain effort to neaten it, and Illya blinks a few times as he comes back to reality. He grunts and shakes his head, mumbling something in Russian seemingly to himself. They don’t need to check their watches to know they’ve missed their target, and neither of them need to announce their intentions before they both head back to their hotel.

This will be interesting to explain to Waverly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya thinks about Napoleon's fat ass and just how beautiful it is.

“Everything alright gentlemen? We heard fighting over the bugs.”

As he’d expected, explaining the situation to Waverly isn’t all that fun.

“We lost target.”

And of course it’s Illya left with the task of doing so, while Napoleon stands on the other side of the hotel room (directly next to the drink’s cabinet), staring down at the ruined waistcoat in his hands, considering the expenses of having it fixed.

“So if not fighting…what _were_ you doing then?”

And this is the exact moment Illya begins his fall from grace. The phone is clenched tight in his hand, receiver pressed almost against his lips, as he begins to blush and stutter his way through a recount of the event. The fact that Illya is clearly struggling to explain an entirely _innocent_ , albeit quite embarrassing, situation to their handler catches Napoleon’s attention. He stares at him, trying to work out just _why_ KGB’s finest has been reduced to a blubbering school boy caught in the act. Unless…

Napoleon catches on just as Illya notices he’s being stared at, attacking his partner with a glare so great it could melt even Siberian ice. Or at least, his scowl would be formidable if it wasn’t for the fact that he was still blushing terribly. Napoleon smirks, turning away to pour himself another drink. Illya can practically taste the smugness in the air, and knows immediately that Napoleon _knows._ He slams the phone down as soon as Waverly’s finished with him, and stalks straight past to the bathroom. He gets changed and brushes his teeth, all the while chiding himself in the mirror. Eventually he leaves and, without a second glance to Napoleon (the man’s _still_ not gotten changed), he immediately gets into his bed, turning on his side to face the wall.

Napoleon has other ideas though, and after finishing off another drink, he slips his hands into his pockets and walks idly over to stand beside Illya’s bed. Illya stares holes into the wall and goes over dismantling various firearms in his head.

“Did you like it?”

Despite Napoleon’s soft tone (that _charm_ he uses that Illya absolutely hates and feels himself falling for), it breaks Illya out of his reverie. Still, he pointedly ignores him, but when Napoleon doesn’t seem to be moving anytime soon, he responds.

_“Hrmmm.”_

Or as much as a response as his unintelligible grunts can be, but Napoleon’s been around him long enough to be able to decipher them. Sort of. With much difficulty. He _supposes_ what Illya said is _’What?’_   The smug expression grows and he kneels just behind Illya’s back, hands placed on the bed too for balance, leaning over him, “Touching me like that?”

Illya hates how sure he sounds of himself, hates that he can bounce back no matter what. Just moments before Napoleon was absolutely mortified with shame and embarrassment, something he’s never seen before and was just beginning to enjoy. Just moments before Napoleon was _helpless,_ caught in the window frame like a rabbit in a snare, vulnerable and exposed and-

He keeps absolutely still and continues staring straight ahead at the wall, so still that one can barely see his body rise and fall gently with his breaths. One might even think he’s dead, if it wasn’t for the fact of how incredibly tense he is.

“We should go to bed, Napoleon.”

And Napoleon would, oh, he really _really_ would just leave Illya be and do as he says and stop bothering him, _if_ it wasn’t for the fact he used his first name. That, for want of a better word, is a window he intends to exploit.

He grins, “We already are in bed, Peril.”

Illya finally turns at that, rolling over and, as expected, Napoleon’s gaze is met with a fierce scowl, but he doesn’t let it deter him, his grin growing even more instead, “We already in _my_ bed, Cowboy.”

_”Annnnd?”_

It’s almost like a flare’s gone off in Illya’s face, that’s how red he looks, and the anger mingles with embarrassment now, his ears burning as he tries to think of an apt response. He can’t. Instead he responds to the question the other posed before. “Yes.” He says and immediately turns back over, his stomach squirming in fury (and something else) at the fact that he _actually_ admitted he’d liked it. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, staring at the wall once more, acutely aware of Napoleon’s presence beside him. Napoleon stays over him a moment or so longer, but eventually lets out a sigh before purposefully leaning back and getting off the bed. Illya turns his head to look back at him over his shoulder with an indignant look, and there was his mistake. Napoleon knows he’s got him.

He grins as he reaches out and tugs at Illya’s body until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and oh, Napoleon can feel how tense he is, how tightly wound, but still his partner doesn’t protest at all. He takes the Russian’s large hands in his own, delicate ones (trained and quick) placing them on his own waist and shivering at the feeling, his bright grin faltering ever so slightly now that he’s here. He’s patient and slow and methodical, inching closer as he raises one leg and props his knee on the bed between Illya’s legs. Illya would seem calm to someone who doesn’t know him, but one who’s close would think he’s near panic with the frantic look in his eyes. His expression is almost pained, _sad_ , as if he’d been wronged, and his gaze quickly flicks over Napoleon’s body, clothes (his shirt is still ruffled and partway unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows), and finally his features (he smiles down at Illya with this triumphant look that’s empty of any malevolence), as if he’s assessing a situation for danger.

But it’s that _smile_ of Napoleon’s that proves to be the final straw on the camel’s back, and Illya inhales sharply before letting out a grunt followed by a barely heard squeak as his hands lower to grope clumsily at Napoleon’s arse. It’s soft, like the odd girl he’s felt here and there, and his head drops forward, face hiding in Napoleon’s shirt before letting out a deep, calming sigh. It’s strange to tell the truth, Napoleon has to admit it, because though Illya had looked as if he was preparing to attack, now he’s going about the whole thing as if engaging in some sort of epiphany. It’d be funny if Illya wasn’t so deeply serious about it (as he almost always seems to be), but well…it does tickle Napoleon’s ego just the slightest.

As endearing as it is, there’s only so calm Napoleon can be in a situation like this. He’s trying to allow Illya his moment, but with the strong, large hands gripping and kneading at his cheeks, he can’t help but let out the odd grunt, sigh and (god forbid) _squeak_ every now and again. He wishes that was the worst of it, but it’s been almost a good twenty minutes of Illya constantly working at his ass, he can’t be blamed for his reaction, can he? Anyone in his shoes would respond the same way. Or at least that’s what Napoleon tells himself, jaw clenching as Illya nuzzles between the folds of his shirt, managing to find an opening and kiss at his skin. Napoleon releases a whined gasp and almost rocks forward, hands raising to lace his fingers in Illya’s neat hair, trying to justify in his mind just _why_ such little things are making his head reel the way they are, and whether or not it was a good idea to get to this point.

“In KGB…” The sudden sound of Illya’s husky voice slicing through the silence makes Napoleon start and shiver, “…they would never allow agent so…voluptuous.”

And Napoleon would say something back, something witty and clever, he really would, but the movement of Illya’s lips against him, his breath tickling his skin, makes him shudder, his breath hitching, and the devilish smile he feels Illya pull is even worse, and Napoleon knows there’s no point trying to hide his desire. He should have seen the smile for the warning it was, but he doesn’t, so can’t help but gasp in surprise when hands move to grip harshly at his thighs, forcing him down to straddle Illya’s lap. Napoleon lets out an embarrassing moan before he can stop himself, and Illya grins at how loud the man is, letting his teeth being felt against Napoleon’s skin for a split second before he lifts his head to look at him. Napoleon hates how smug the bastard looks, or at least, he hates how much his smug looks affects him. Illya stares with that careful gaze of his, the same one he uses when inspecting new equipment, but there’s a tug at the corner of his lips that smacks of amusement, a look in his eye that makes Napoleon suspect they’re in the same boat. But when firm hands return to grope at him again, he squirms under the stare, unable to keep from rutting forward.

Illya’s brows raise as he lets out a bemused and interested, _”Oh?”_ at the movement, and Napoleon decides in that moment (though he’s quickly losing the ability to think lucidly) that he hates smug Illya, mainly for the fact that it compromises his position so. The train of thought is barely allowed to pass however, Illya’s movements heavy and purposeful now, large hands kneading and spreading Napoleon’s cheeks as wide as his tight suit pants allow it.

“These pants cost more money than you’ve ever seen in your life, Peril,” Or at least that’s what Napoleon tries to say, but the outcome sounds more like a high pitched whine against Illya’s shoulder as Napoleon continues to grind against the man like a dog in heat, expensive material straining against his thighs. The struggle Napoleon goes through only seems to fuel Illya into a frenzy, a hand moving to slip under Napoleon’s shirt and run up his torso, ripping off the buttons that were still closed with ease. He lets out what sounds like a low, delighted hum when he finds there’s plenty of Napoleon’s chest to grope to keep him satisfied. Before Napoleon can even begin to catch up with what's going on, Illya moves to the crook of Napoleon’s neck, snarling against the delicate skin like some wild beast. Napoleon’s pulse flickers under his mouth as he licks across without shame, the debauched nature of it making Napoleon quiver. Everything about Illya is coarse and rough and heavy, and the bruises he leaves along Napoleon’s neck are no different, the usually put together man a writhing rag doll in his arms. There’s only so much Napoleon can take though, and he feels himself grow overwhelmed, knows that if he doesn’t regain control he’ll make an even bigger embarrassment of himself, but before he can take action Illya pulls him down as he ruts up against him, the brutal movement the final push to Napoleon.

He comes with a weak cry, gasping wetly against Illya as he rides out his orgasm, own hands gripping uselessly at the man’s back. Illya freezes for a split second. _That’s realisation settling in,_ thinks Napoleon grumpily, as he too has the realisation of just _what_ happened dawn on him, the uncomfortable feeling in his pants beginning to spread.

“Loving your work, Cowboy.” Napoleon hears the amusement in his voice and wonders just _how,_ by his own doing, he’d managed to lose his foothold over Illya and end up the blushing mess instead.


End file.
